Society In Dublin City

*Society In Dublin City.

Dublin Society as it is. - Changes. - Social Entertainments. - Music. - Theatricals. - Leaders of Society, etc.

Dublin is decidedly social, the Irish being somewhat what akin to the French in character, and possessing that *gaieté du coeur *which goes a long way towards making life pleasant. The hospitality of the little city is unbounded, and a stranger need not fear solitude; he is welcomed with a cordiality which is the essence of good breeding.

But although Dublin so far adheres to its old traditions, no one can deny it has been greatly shorn of its splendour since the days when it was a capital with a resident nobility. I have essayed to give my readers a sketch of what Dublin society was towards the end of the last century. It does not present, I am afraid, an edifying spectacle.

Men and women alike seemed to have been possessed by a very demon of extravagance akin to madness. It was a lightning before death sort of business, for already could be heard the mutterings of the storm which was to involve the country in ruin. In fact, the passing of the Act of Union in 1801 only hastened by a few years the ruin of those of the Irish nobility and upper class who had pursued a long course of reckless extravagance.

Their downfall was a foregone conclusion. The end, however, did not follow immediately; the exodus from the capital was not final till after 1846, when the last chapter of the miserable history was written in the sale-books of the Encumbered Estates Court.

Lever, whose portraiture of his own countrymen is unrivalled, gives us a curiously lifelike account of Dublin society 20 years after the Union. His standpoint is taken very much from the same platform as that of Fisher Murray in the “The Viceroy.” Lever’s pen, however, is not dipped ,in such acrid ink; and although he does hold up the mirror to some of the patent defects of his own countrymen and women, he does it with good humour and good taste.

In the passage here quoted the Irish novelist gives the impressions of an English Guardsman just attached to the Viceroy’s staff. The scene is Dublin some 30 years after the Union

“Everything attested a state of poverty - a lack of trade, a want of comfort and of cleanliness. … On we went, threading our way through a *bare-legged *population, bawling themselves hoarse with energetic desires for prosperity to Ireland. ‘Yes,’ thought I, as I looked upon the worn, dilapidated houses, the faded and bygone equipages, the tarnished finery of better days - ‘Yes, my father was right; these people are very different from their neighbours.’”

This difference was further accentuated when Jack Hinton (the Guardsman) began td get acquainted with the humours of Dublin Society. Here is the description of a dinner party at the Castle, evidently during the Duke of Northumberland’s viceroyalty (1830). I give it in its entirety, it is such a vivid picture of the day:

“Amid a shower of smart, caustic, and witty sayings, droll stories, retort, and repartee, the wine circulated freely from hand to hand, the presence of the Duke adding fresh impulse to the sallies of fun and merriment around him. Anecdotes of the Army, the Bench, and the Bar poured in unceasingly, accompanied by running commentaries of the hearers, who never let slip an opportunity for a jest or a rejoinder. To me the most singular feature of all this was, that no one seemed too old or too dignified, too high in station or too venerable from office, to join in this headlong current of conviviality; austere Churchmen, erudite Chief Justices, profound politicians, Privy Councillors, military officers of high rank and standing, were here all mixed up together into one strange medley, apparently bent on throwing an air of ridicule over the graver business of life, and laughing alike at themselves and the world. Nothing was too grave for a jest, nothing too solemn for a sarcasm. All the soldier’s experience of men and manners, all the lawyer’s acuteness of perception and readiness of wit, all the politician’s practised tact and habitual subtlety, were brought to bear upon the common topics of the day with such promptitude and such power that one knew not whether to be more struck by the mass of information they possessed, or by that strange fatality which could make men, so great and so gifted, satisfied to jest where they might be called on to judge.”

Given certain exceptions, this description of society more than 60 years ago might serve as an account of a Dublin dinner party of to-day; but not exactly as to the quality of the repartee, no such brilliant encounter of wits taking place nowadays as when Greek met Greek in the persons of Grattan, Flood, Burke, and Curran.

[I am here reminded of a certain lady of quality, resident in Dublin, whose principal, if not only, study was the Matrimonial Register. To her a friend one day lamented the decay of talent. Said she, “There are no men such as Grattan and Burke nowadays.” “You surprise me,” returned the lady of quality; ” surely we have Lord G., and Sir B. B., and Mr. - “these gentlemen being three of the best matrimonial prizes, but not particularly distinguished for their mental qualities.]

Nor do we “find that deep knowledge of the world and profound insight into the heart which often imparted to the careless and random speech the sharpness of the most cutting sarcasm. There still remains a certain give and take, a sparkle and occasionally a brilliant sally which would be sufficient, and more than sufficient, to make the fortune of a London “diner-out.”

Society in Dublin does include within its circle men exceptionally gifted, and who can, when so minded, set the table in a roar. Such a one was Father Healy, of Little Bray, who recently passed from amongst us. His wit was as keen in its edge as that of Curran, but it was tempered by kindness; he was never known to hurt any ones feelings - a rare instance of self-denial, for to the jester no one is sacred.

Father James (for so he was known to his friends, and the familiar name comes more naturally) possessed likewise the admirable quality of never forcing the situation by leading up to a joke. Fun with him was spontaneous, bubbling over and irrepressible, as if from some fountain of merriment within, which nevertheless, occasionally ran dry, if any “stuck-ups” were amongst the company.

I remember his telling a story about one of the numerous under-secretaries who have tried their hand at concocting “soothing syrups” for Ireland’s “congestion.” This gentleman, who was as “stiff as starch,” but an excellent fellow (there was always this amiable qualifying with Father James), expressed a strong desire to meet an Irish country priest; he felt sure be could get something out of him. “And so you shall,” said Father James. “Come and dine off a leg of mutton with me at Little Bray, and you shall have as nice a specimen of a P.P. as you’d ask to see; but maybe you’d prefer a C.C.?” The Secretary looked a little puzzled. “Well, leave that to me,” went on the other ; “it will be all right.”

To hear Father James describe that dinner was as good as a play. The Secretary arrived punctual at 6.30; he was tightly fitted into an irreproachable dress suit, his linen buckrammed like himself. Father James ‘met him at the door, and his first word was, ” Have you got me a C.C. or a P.P.?” “Oh, you can have your choice,” returned his host, as he ushered his guest into the sitting-room, where tw12elve priests were awaiting the guest. The Secretary was taken aback. ” He looked for all the world as if he had swallowed the poker and would never digest it.” But after the first shock was over he came round. A stiff brew of whisky punch aided the process of digestion; the priests were excellent company; the encounter of wits was keen ; the Secretary’s starch fell away, and the last sight seen of him was going to the station leaning affectionately on the arms of two stalwart P.P.’s, who guided his rather uncertain steps. ” But,” said Father James with a sly wink, “I’m thinking he didn’t get *that something *out of them.”

The last time I met my old friend I noted a change; the sparkle in his eyes was dim, and his laugh had not the hearty sound of yore. He spoke sadly of many friends dead or gone away, and of some tragic events that had happened in the families of those we knew well. His sadness pained me-for sadness sits badly upon the light-hearted, and Father James had never been a melancholy Jacques. But those who were with him at the end of all things said that there was no sadness in his death; such childlike, simple natures as Father James’s know they are going home.

The mention of Father James recalls his friend Dr. Nedley, another Dublin humourist, a true jester with a kindly nature. Dr. Nedley’s reputation was made by a ballad written in the style of a street ballad, which told the story of a certain excellent lady living in Dublin, who could not rest in the zeal which consumed her to possess herself of the souls and bodies of Catholic children, whom she would buy from their parents, or, failing this, kidnap and carry off to an institution appropriately called ” The Birds’ Nest.” The uproar and turmoil caused by this high-handed proceeding (which was condemned by most of the good lady’s co-religionists) are humorously set forth in Dr. Nedley’s ballad, which drew the attention of the authorities to what was going on, and a final stopper was put to overmuch zeal.

Dr. Nedley formed one of the pleasant company who for many years were wont to assemble at the country residence of Judge Fitzgibbon, to have what is called a “high time” during a week given up to fun and frolic. Lord Randolph Churchill was one of the merry revellers most constant to the annual tryst; another member was Lord Ashbourne (now Chancellor of Ireland), a man of great ability, and withal as fond of frolic as a schoolboy. Lord Ashbourne rejoices in a truly Celtic brogue nearly as long as that of Lord Morris, to whom is due the thanks of a grateful country for having raised the status of the brogue and caused it to be pleasant to English ears.-

[One of Father James’s good sayings was in connection with Lord Morris’s brogue. The story is, I am afraid, rather stale, but it may be new to some. It was at a wedding, and the usual throwing of the slipper at the bride was to take place; hut when the moment came, alas! no slipper was forthcoming. “Ah! never mind,” cried Father Healy, “there’s Morris, he’ll throw his brogue after them.”

It is not the accent alone that calls down upon us unfortunate Islanders the ridicule of our English friends; it is what they designate our very Irish “turn of expression,” which hurts their more delicate perceptions. All the world knows that we are “chartered libertines” as regards “shall” and “will.” Our demoralisation does not cease here. We sin in a hundred ways unconsciously. We have an extraordinary manner of using the conditional tense - as, for instance, “You might open the window,” “You might let me hear from you”; and again there is the quicksand of “bring” and “take,” these important verbs being made use of in an upside-down fashion terribly trying to English ears. I do not know if my readers ever heard of the Irish gentleman who went into a restaurant in London to eat his luncheon. He had some excellent cold beef, but the mustard was out of his reach, so he jogged the elbow of his next neighbour, a law-abiding Englishman, and said he, “I’ll take the mustherd from you.” “What do you mean, sir?” replied his neighbour, eyeing him coldly. “I’ll take the mustherd from you,” repeated the Irishman. “You’ll do nothing of the sort, sir!” returned the other; *“we *don’t allow ourselves to be hectored in that manner; but if you really want the mustard, I’ll hand it to you with pleasure.” “And shure that’s all I’m wantin’,” returned Paddy.]

And here I hope I shall be pardoned if I make a little digression to say a few words as to the national accent. I am not a student of philology; I do not understand the cause why the’ brogue exists ; I am only conscious of its existence in different forms. I believe there are as many “brogues” as there are provinces in Ireland.

There is the grand Milesian, rolling, sonorous, splendid for oratorical purpose, as all who have heard the late Father Tom Burke will testify. Who can forget his voice? It sounds in my ears as I write - most musical, most metrical.

Next in order comes the Galway brogue, without the rhythm or roll of the Southern-harder, more assertive; occasionally we detect a touch of vulgarity, the vowel o being transformed into *a; *Thus a Galway squireen [a man with a small property, but not one of the gentlemen of the county] invariably talks of his “harse.”

The Kerry accent is singularly soft ; there is a reflex of sadness in it; involuntarily you think of the long-faded glories.

But when you come to blustering Cork, oh! then you have the twin brothers of our old friend Dr. Tanner to the right and left of you. And here I am reminded of the Cove of Cork people, who have a sympathising, sleuthering, [Sleuthering,” a word foreign to English ears, is an expressive phrase for insincere compliments.] flattering way with them, caught from perpetually kissing the blarney stone.

The Roscommon accent is not suggestive of *cu/lure, *while the Leitrim brogue is too civil to inspire much confidence.

The Northern accent, with its curious pronunciation of *tew *for *two, *is cunning and businesslike.

The Dublin brogue is perhaps the most objectionable, for the reason that it is not a genuine brogue; there is an evident effort to try and talk in a higher and more English key, an effort which is never very successful.

Brogue, or no brogue, matters little when the speaker is a pretty Irish girl; then the dreadful Irish accent comes softened from her rosy lips, and even the objectionable “shure” is condoned. But what does a man in love not condone?

The two most prominent factors in Dublin Society are “the Castle” and the Military. Of late years the Castle season has been considerably shortened, beginning towards the middle or sometimes the end of January, and finishing on March 17, hardly six weeks. During this period private entertainments are seldom given, unless by such a leader of society as Lady Iveagh, whose fine mansion in Stephen’s Green is generally full of English visitors.

The night of the first levée, however, is generally seized upon for a private ball, which is sure to be good, as Dublin is full of country people, who come up once a year to do honour to the Queen’s representative.

Then there are balls at the Royal Hospital. I am told the military do not give so many entertainments as in the days when I knew Dublin, but at that time no regiment thought of quitting the town without a farewell in the shape of a ball.

I have an old paper of 1874 lying before me now, with an account of a famous ball given by the Guards in the concert-room of the Exhibition Palace, which, as it held a thousand persons, was well suited to an entertainment of the sort. Here the Dublin world saw the two belles of London society -“Spenser’s Faerie Queene” and the Duchess of Manchester [now the Duchess of Devonshire] in all the pride of her splendid beauty.

Other remarkable fancy balls given in Dublin between 1870 and 1881 were those of the Duke of Abercorn and Lady Iveagh, then Mrs. Guinness. The first named was held in St. Patrick’s Hall, which lent to the scene an added charm. The European quadrille was more like one of Ben Jonson’s masques. Mrs. Adair formed the principal attraction she appeared as Africa, and carried the key of the Isthmus of Suez.

I subjoin the account of Mrs. Guinness’s ball, taken from the *Whitehall Review *of 1881. It will have an interest for many readers who since then have passed from joyous girlhood to sober middle age

-“I come now to the last fancy ball of the series. It is not many days old, and it is a curious coincidence that, as the first masquerade ever given in Dublin was on June 6, 1781, this last creation of Fashion’s brain has for date February 10, 1881 - a centenary, in fact, short of three months and three days. Mrs. Guinness’s ball has been for three weeks the one, the universal, the absorbing, the all-important topic. It has murdered sleep for many an aspirant to fashion, for not to be invited was social damnation.

As the day drew near the excitement increased. Stories filtered through the clubs of great names rejected; the flying column of Irish aristocracy, who at this season wing their flight through Dublin to the brighter spheres of London society, were amazed to find that the mere announcement of their names at Maple’s or Morison’s was not sufficient to ensure a card; but Mrs. Guinness can command her company and does not need such reinforcements.

The Lord-Lieutenant and Lady Cowper honoured the ball by their presence, and paid their hosts the additional compliment of appearing in costume, his Excellency as a Venetian nobleman, his Countess as a Venetian lady; two most picturesque figures, accurate in detail, and suiting Lady Cowper’s dark beauty - altogether, a happy choice.

At the moment of their arrival the scene is most brilliant lights burning softly, music discoursing, tropical plants in profusion, a sort of Eastern magnificence over all. The large staircase is full of a motley crowd – matadors, Chinese mandarins, cavaliers, and Incroyables mingling with fairies, gipsies, powdered dames, and pretty peasants.

The corridors also are full here and there a startling figure stands out, notably a magnificent Kurd chieftain with turban and wild eyes, a splendid figure, the effect increased by knowing he is a real hero, Major McCalmont; in a corner a very handsome Leicester in white satin doublet (Hon. Captain Denison) is talking to Mother Hubbard (Lady Drogheda), an excellent figure.

So also is Lord Granard, the descendant of the Sixpenny Doll [a character assumed by Lord Granard’s ancestor at one of “the Fishamble Street ridottos.”] the beautiful Mrs. Dalrymple is* poudrée.*

A most quaint figure, charming in its way, is the Hon. Mrs. Bernard Fitzpatrick [now Lady Castletown] in a Directoire coat of brown satin with extra long tails, and a startlingly short petticoat, beneath which the dainty feet and ankles show plainly (no ‘creeping out’ here). This costume is completed by a small bag wig and a long cane.

Among such a gathering of fair women and strong men it is hard to particularise ; but, as I write, *one face *rises before me with its charming expression - ever changing, but always delightful; Mrs. Cornwallis West has the rare gift of fascination, and she was at her very best on Thursday night.

Her sister, Mrs. Brooke, is also a pretty little figure; her dress had the same startling qualities as Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s, but she was very attractive, and bids fair to be a Beauty on a smaller scale. Dublin’s favourite, the popular Miss Alma Barton, [now Mrs. Brooke of Somerton] was a faithful copy of Miss Terry, as Olivia; but it is generally thought by her admirers that she never looks so well as when she is herself.

Lady Tavistock made a courtly representative of sacque and powder; the Ladies Bourke most charming replicas of Sir Joshua Reynolds’s ”White Muslin Misses’; Lady Constance Leslie, the most picturesque of Gainsboroughs, just off the walls of the National Gallery, a most delightful figure.

So also was Lord William Compton, a Venetian in red silk and cap of the same, with superb diamond aigrette-a striking get up. There was a Chinese mandarin, with the long sleepy eyes and lazy dignity of the native; a Burmese (Colonel Corton), very good; an excellent Dirk Hatteraick ; a splendid Lohengrin; a first-rate Incroyable ‘(Captain King,

two Portias; and a crowd of others, all good in their way, especially two or three old-fashioned dresses of the time ‘when George the Third’ was king,’ which were well carried out.

I have left our host and hostess to the last. Mrs. Guinness, in a white sacque embroidered in gold, and a powdered head, looked the Chatelaine to perfection. With a ‘king’s ransom’ in diamonds and lace, she was a picture. Mr. Guinness wore his violet velvet cloak with infinite grace.

And now I take leave of this most unique of entertainments. It will long dwell in the memory of those who saw it, with its wealth of flowers, its perfect arrangements, its picturesque effects, and its lovely women.”

But to return to the Dublin of to-day. Dinners are much in vogue during the season, especially by officials and legal functionaries; while those who cannot afford to give them do so on the same scale as those richer than they are. Assuredly nothing can be better done, a certain elegance giving an air of distinction, especially where small dinners are in question.

And before I leave the subject of cookery, I would, with all due respect, venture to affirm that the confectionery in Dublin is far more toothsome than in the greater Babylon; in fact, with the exception of Buszard and Gunter, it is hard to find an eatable cake in London; there is a stoggy, bad buttery flavour, which makes them uneatable, or, if eaten, indigestible. Even the great Gunter pales his ineffectual fire, or stove, before the productions of Mitchell of Grafton Street. I refer this point to every one who’ is “from bias free and prejudice”; but my belief is that the superiority is greatly due to the excellence of the Irish butter.

In Dublin “afternoons have always been a favourite form of entertainment, being much gayer and more informal than the London ” at homes.” I read not long ago in some magazine *(Co/burn *or *Bentley) *a high tribute paid to the social qualities of a certain hostess residing in Fitzwilliam Street. It is pleasant to add that, although the article in question bears date full five-and-twenty years ago or more, Mrs. Bramston Smith continues her receptions, which are crowded as heretofore, especially on Levée Day.

Music is a noted feature of afternoon parties. Passing through one of the fashionable squares during the season, we note a block of carriages and cabs; and from the open windows come the strains of some popular duet or chorus. The Dublin amateur is somewhat ambitious, and has a certain standpoint of excellence. The voices as a rule are tuneful and pleasing, and show considerable cultivation. Tenors “robust” and “delicate” abound; and instrumentalists, although more rare, are of very fair quality.

It seems, however, that the Dublin amateurs of to-day lack somewhat the go and spirit which distinguished their predecessors. It may be that the newer excitements of lawn tennis, golf, and cycling have put music for the moment in the background. From whatever cause, the old musical traditions are undoubtedly not kept up. There are many still living who can remember a certain quartette of musicians who at one time were the pride and glory of Dublin society - Mrs. Hercules Macdonell, Mrs. Edward Geale, Mr. Macdonell, and Mr. Stanford (father to the well-known composer Dr. Villiers Stanford). Of these Mrs. Edward Geale is the sole survivor. This lady (the José of Puckler Muskau’s Memoirs) was niece to Lady Morgan, and was possessed of a voice of singular quality, having a tenor register. She had studied under Rubini, had sung with Pasta, and Moore had taught her how to make his melodies touch the hearts of all listeners. Her house in Leeson Street was the resort of the best musical talent, amateur and professional; and here at one time operatic recitals were given of *Trovatore *and *Puritani, *the histrionic element being supplied by marionettes, cleverly worked by amateurs also.

I should say this was perhaps the golden age of music in Dublin. More than a generation later a bolder flight of audacity was the production in 1881 of Gilbert and Sullivan’s bright operetta *Pinafore *at Dublin Castle, the *raison d’etre *being to raise funds in help of the Duchess of Marlborough’s relief fund for the distressed Irish. On the whole the undertaking was very creditable to all engaged in it. The sisters, cousins, and aunts were recruited from the prettiest girls, and the scene in the historic St. Patrick’s Hall was one to remember. [One of the characters was played by that typical Irishman Mr. Robert Martin, of Russ, better known as “Ballyhooy.”]

The writer has in her possession a letter conveying a most complimentary message from the Duke of Edinburgh, who was amongst the audience.

As a matter of fact the standard of excellence, both musically and theatrically, is much higher than it was 16 or 17 years ago, with the result that the line between amateurs and professionals is by no means so distinctly marked. A couple of years since I witnessed a performance at the Queen’s Theatre in Dublin which was quite up to the professional mark. The clever lady who filled the title role was Mrs. Claude Cane, of St. Wolstans.

Although the Castle season practically ends with St. Patrick’s Ball, there is plenty of gaiety going on in Dublin until May. There are the bazaars, of late a feature in society. They are well organized; some lady of position takes the lead, and under her work a band of ardent assistants, women and *men. *The introduction of the masculine element is a new feature, which probably is at the root of the new success. It matters little. Charity, like love, should be blind.

Flower shows, which used to delight one’s heart in days of old, are voted slow; and I noticed a slackness as to the once absorbing lawn-tennis tournament. But the races - oh, there was no slackness there! It is a sight of sights to see Dubliners go a-racing. No one should miss it.

If you, my reader, have not witnessed the sight, come now and stand with me in spirit at the corner of Stephen’s Green, and watch the string of outside cars as they tear along Harcourt Street: sober English officers, young men about town, grave officials, lawyers from the Courts, solicitors, bank clerks, pretty girls looking knowing in their covert coats, frisky matrons, husbands out for the day - all off for a day’s pleasuring, all overflowing with fun and good spirits.

The very spirit of frivolity is abroad. You can hear the ripples of laughter from the dark-eyed girls on one side of that smart little outside car belonging to Major O’Grady. Every one knows everybody, and those on the cars chaff those on the pavement.

Here is a cloud of dust; outriders, open carriage and four, followed by carriages and pairs, a general lifting of hats, and a very genuine cheer for the popular Viceroy and his popular consort. They too have cast aside the affairs of State, and are off to Leopardstown.

The real carnival of the year is the Horse Show. Then Dublin may be said to run riot. The Shelbourne is not only full, but has to take lodgings for its *clientèle *in the vicinity. So with the other hotels. The whole place is as full as a beehive. The county of Galway has transported itself bodily. Oh, it is a grand sight entirely!

The road to Ball’s Bridge is one line of equipages of all descriptions. It must however, be confessed that the entrance to the Horse Show is not imposing; it has an unfinished look. But once inside! I shall not hazard a description. Not even the pen of Whyte Melville - who knew his métier? - could attempt to describe the Irish festival: the tiers upon tiers of spectators, the radiance of Irish beauty that almost blinds the unwary Saxon who in broad daylight looks upon those houris as they sit arrayed like the lilies of the field in all their loveliness; for here we have a galaxy of beauty from every part of the country.

How charming to hear their little screams when some horse balks at a high jump or comes splash into the water; or their delight with the Galway horses, as they set their dear little hoofs upon the top of the stone wall (just as a kitten would do) before they jump! At the finale there is the exciting scene of the coaches ani teams driving round the arena, the drivers receiving from the Viceroy a whip as each passes. I confess this portion of the show always reminds me of Barnum’s Circus. I hope I shall be pardoned for saying so.

For those even who do not go to the show Dublin is very pleasant during the Horse Show week. One is sure to meet every Tom, Jack, and Harry you ever knew: And then the lots of pretty women to be seen in every direction ! Grafton Street is full of these beauties doing their shopping in the early morning, looking so fresh and so sunny, chirruping so brightly to one another, and withal with a certain air of business.

And here I must pause to dilate upon the charms of my countrywomen, especially in extreme youth - colleens, as they call them in the soft language of the South - fresh as morning dew, with those liquid eyes whose colour is all uncertain, so shaded is the grey blue of the pupil by the long black lashes which lie upon the soft velvet cheek. And then the expression! - so changing you can hardly catch the sweetness before it turns to mischievous roguish fun, and then again to sadness; and now it is knowing, and sometimes assertive, with a little nod of the shapely head.

[Some years ago a poem was handed about privately, describing the Irish beauties of the day (1868). A copy is here reproduced, as it may amuse many who can remember so long ago it was called

My Perplexity

Oh dear I it’s very perplexing

The cause of my troubles to tell;

I’ll own it’s terribly vexing,

And very bewitching as well.

I’ve so many fair ones about me,

I know not on which to decide;

Some might love and some others might doubt me,

Should I venture to speak of a bride.

To begin, there’s Diana Golightly,

With a fortune of silver and gold;

‘Tis true she’s so kind and so sprightly,

But, between us, a little too old.

Then fair Ada Ribton’s [Sir George Ribton’s daughter] a beauty,

She’s charmed every gent. she has met;

But I fear I should fail in my duty,

If I wedded an arrant coquette.

And now of sweet Adela [Miss Vance, now Lady Keane]- so graceful and tall,

Whose joys are at home, not in banquet or ball

She is like a young fawn seeking its rest-

Oh that she’d take refuge on my faithful breast

Etc., etc.

Yes, the great charm of the Irish face is the mobile expression. And if you wish to see a good example of this varying charm, you will find it in Mrs. Bram-Stoker, the wife* of the acting manager of the Lyceum. Hers is a perfect example of an Irish face. So too was, in days of yore, Mrs. *Cornwallis West.

And, curiously enough, Mrs. Langtry (although I believe she has no Irish blood) has a certain measure of this indefinable, not easily caught, but altogether charming expression. The record of Irish beauty is a very long one, extending as it does from the days when Eva McMorrogh, the Irish King’s daughter, fascinated Strongbow. Since then the same story has been repeated over and over again; it is in fact matter of history, and the charm of Irish beauty is as potent now as then.

The portrait presented on the opposite page as a type of Irish beauty is of the Countess of Annesley, who as Miss Armitage Moore won all hearts, not alone by her beauty, but by her simplicity and unconsciousness of her own charms.

Further on we have a charming blonde, Lady Mayo, who, for all she looks so girlish, is the President of the School of Art Needlework in Dublin - needlework having for her, as she tells us, simply “a special attraction.” It is fortunate for the workers that it is so; for under the new President’s fostering care the school of needlework established by Lady Cowper in 1882, and which had sunk almost into decay, has now become a most flourishing institution.

“Any work that can be done by the needle,” says Lady Mayo, “we undertake to do, and in the best manner; and being in correspondence with the best designers of the day, we can copy or originate according to the wish of the purchaser.” It is to be hoped sufficient support will be given to this excellent work. That Ireland should be in every way encouraged to help herself is the first and most important step towards her taking, as she should do, a first place amongst cultured nations.

The mention of needlework brings me naturally to the question of dress. Irishwomen as a rule dress well, especially in the evening. The morning get-up is perhaps a little overpowering, lacking the trimness of the Englishwoman. The golden rule should always be remembered, ” Let no one be sure what *you have on, *but simply recognise that you are well dressed.”

Mr. George Moore, in his remarks on Dublin, tells us of a Mrs. Rusville, a fashionable dressmaker, who cheered her clients’ spirits with gin-and-water, which did not taste like gin because it was drunk out of a coloured glass! I conclude Rusville is a thin veil for Russ*ell, *once an oracle of fashion, but certainly not a supplier of gin.

Mrs. Russell exercised a power over her clients, using occasionally rather strong language, as when she told a gentleman who objected to pay an exorbitant hill sent to his wife, “Is this my thanks for dressing up your dirty little drab of a wife?”

I remember a lady relating how, on her first presentation, she..was taken to Mrs. Russell that she might judge how she looked, before she went through the Court ordeal. The oracle ordered her up on a chair, where she kept her standing for an hour, while she had roses sewn all over the train as if they had dropped there. What with fatigue and nerv~usness the poor girl began to cry.

Mrs. Manning, the mother of the present Dublin Mantilini, was in her way a character, but far more pleasant to deal with than Mrs. Russell.

The most popular of modistes was the late Mrs. Sims, who had an inborn touch of genius, and a cut which could make a large waist look small. Better than these qualities was her unbounded charity, which was evidenced by the grief of the poor when she died. She possessed a certain simplicity of character which made for her friends even in the most exalted station.

She was fond of telling her experiences of high life. On one occasion, when she had been summoned to Marlborough House to fit Her Royal Highness the Princess of Wales, she was left for some time waiting. Her nervousness was naturally great, when presently a young man came in. He spoke to her, and she answered, supposing he was some one in attendance. When the Princess at length appeared, they were chatting pleasantly. “Ah,” said she, “Mrs. Sims, do you know my brother?” Then, seeing the poor woman’s confusion, she added, laughing, “Mrs. Sims, the King of Greece. The King of Greece, Mrs. Sims.” Another story concerning the Princess’s sweetness was the introduction of the Princesses. “Mrs. Sims, my daughters : No. 1 - No. 2 - No. 3.” “Ah” said poor Mrs. Sims, relating the above, “and when I think of the hauteur of some of my ladies!”

There is little more to say of Dublin society, over which a complete change has passed since the days when Lever wrote his admirable sketches of his countrymen and countrywomen.

All changes eliminate something we fain would keep, and one cannot help regretting the many national characteristics have passed altogether from us. No longer have we the Irish servant (unless on the stage, when Mr. Shine presents him). Yet Corney Delany, with his “Turks and haythins,” was no exaggeration. These Caleb Balderstones imparted a flavour to Irish households, which since the introduction of the parlour maid is lost.

[I think it is Thackeray who tells the story of the waiter at some country hotel who was in the habit of kicking a piece of the carpet (which had never been nailed down since it had lost its original nail) with his foot into its place, as be carried in a large breakfast or dinner tray. When remonstrated with as to the danger of upsetting himself and his overloaded tray, Pat replied, “Och! shure I haven’t the time to be drivin’ nails.” On this two good-natured young fellows told him they would settle it, and accordingly got a hammer and nails and reduced the carpet to permanent submission. They looked for Pat’s appearance with great pleasure. What was their surprise to see him give the usual kick, with the result that, having nothing to meet the uplifted foot, the hapless waiter fell prone on the carpet, the dinner and dishes being scattered in every direction. The smash of crockery brought the landlord, to find Pat cursing soundly. “By the holy Jagers, Im kilt! Oh, bad cess to thim nails, the dirty spalpeens, to play me such a trick! Och!” turning on his friends, “what business had ye at all, at all, wid me and me trays? Oh, go long wid ye for a dirty pair of blackguards!” To the end of his days he was persuaded the nails were in fault; for as he sapiently remarked, “Shure, when the carpet was nailed down, what threw me but the nails in it?”]

Gone too is much of the fun and spirit of the “jarvey” driver; you can hardly raise a laugh out of one nowadays. We must all rejoice at the elimination of the garrison hack, that odious person who was handed on from one regiment to another, and rejoiced in the generic name of “Jack.”

Mrs. Paul Rooney, the wife of the wealthy solicitor Paul Rooney, is with us still, “in her sumptuous house, resplendent with jewellery, full of low ambitions, of vulgar tastes and contemptible rivalries.” But such as she is not a stranger on the boards of London society. It is of her, and such as her, that the Saxon warrior is wont to carry back those delightful stories with which he regales his “sisters, cousins, and aunts.”

The late Colonel Crealock, C.B., was a great collector of such *bonne bouches, *many of which were of his own making. As, for instance, the lady who at an afternoon party persisted in keeping on a well-made seal-skin jacket, fitting like a glove. Distressed at the state of Turkish bath to which the poor thing was reduced, Colonel Crealock laid a bold hand upon the coat, when with a shrill scream the wearer cried, “Oh, Kurnel, shure you wouldn’t have me sit in me skin?” This was at all events ben trovato.

One salient feature still remains : the Irish have always had a marked turn for giving sobriquets or nicknames. They hit the nail on the head, so to speak, and are sometimes most happy in fitting their victims with never-forgotten sobriquets.

I have just heard one which would merit a prize, if such were given, for *ill nature. *I am not going to repeat it here. But the following are a few harmless nicknames (especially as they do not touch the living), which will give an idea of the talent for sarcasm which is inherent in Irish men and women. On one occasion a large musical party took place at the house of the late Sir William Hort. The music was exceptionally good, while the company generally enjoyed aristocratic prefixes. This suggested to the wits of Kildare Street Club the *bon mot *“Handel” Festival. Again, a lady who had married three times, was called the Woman of Samaria; and an elderly spinster rejoicing in the name of Ball, Golden Ball. A certain colonel was left by a deceased father the charge of a sister already advanced in years and size; so the lady was dubbed “The Thumping Legacy.” Another very refined and elderly lady, given to fainting, and whose name was Anna, was christened Dieanna; two sisters of advanced rapidity, Palpitating Poll and “The Plunger”; and an old gentleman who suffered from tender feet, “Bunions.

I will now conclude this slight sketch of Dublin society with a hope that better days are coming for the bright little city and the dwellers therein. There is every reason to think that a future is in store for Ireland. Helping hands are stretched out on all sides, and kindly efforts are being made to enlarge the resources of the country and educate the people. The prejudices which were so widespread are diminishing, and that air of superiority which was at times very galling in our Saxon visitors is not now so offensively apparent.

If only our English brethren would be “to our faults and our follies kind,” if they would shut their eyes and their ears to our occasional deviations from their higher standard, and would not treat our trifling and oftentimes accidental blemishes in manner and speech as national characteristics, and dismiss them with the cutting words, “Quite Irish,” or “So very Irish”! These words, as Lever remarks, are indiscriminately applied to an Irish Lord, an Irish Member, an Irish estate, and an Irish diamond. It may be added that they apply to this book, as it has been compiled by an Irishwoman, illustrated by an Irishwoman, and dedicated to one of Ireland’s kindest friends.

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